


Envoi

by Castiron



Series: Endpoints [2]
Category: Sharing Knife - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22085221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiron/pseuds/Castiron
Summary: There was a sharp inhalation from Henbit on seeing the second blade. "Oh. You're one of theLakewalkerBluefields. I thought you were a farmer."
Series: Endpoints [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589686
Comments: 28
Kudos: 49





	Envoi

Mal gazed at the landscape as the powerglider passed over western Luthlia. They were now far enough west that the endless forest had finally been broken by the plains; scattered trees still dotted the ground, but fewer and scragglier.

From the pilot's seat, Farrier said, "Shouldn't be more than another horsemile before we land."

About what Mal expected, from her memory of the map. She stretched out her legs. "Tripoint or Graymouth horsemile?"

Farrier's grin was obvious even though Mal couldn't see her face. "You know me, duckling; always Confluence."

The third member of the crew, Henbit, looked back and forth between them; he was a young farmer who'd only recently come to Luthlia. "Don't the scanner crews out here use standard time measure?"

"What do you think, Mal? Can we get him to believe that when we calculated the standard, we substituted a wolf for the horse?"

"Before you said that, maybe." Mal glanced at the groundviewer. "There. Malice sign detected."

Henbit studied the screen. "That fuzz on the upper left? Isn't that noise?"

"Wrong shape. See how the edges fade instead of speckling? Display noise speckles; actual malice gives a smooth screen gradient."

"I see. I always wondered how my old patrol leader could tell the difference."

"If they didn't explain it, they weren't much of a leader." She leaned back against the seat back. "But maybe they thought you'd figure it out on your own; Cotton says you've got a knack for the scanner." 

"I'm not bad," Henbit said. "I'm responsible for detecting five coal deposits and a big copper deposit. And I'm the one who found the sessile in Lost Oaks three years ago."

Mal whistled. "Now I am impressed. Sure you don't have latent groundsense?"

"Nope, just as much a farmer as you two."

Farrier's snort was so quiet that Mal only heard it because she'd expected it. Mal said, "You'd be surprised. Plenty of farmers have a little groundsense—not enough to be counted as Lakewalkers, but enough to be useful. Take Farrier here; she's a farmer, but she's got just enough of a touch of groundsense to navigate in night, fog, or sunglare. She can't get lost."

"Enough of a touch? I feel so honored." Farrier's tone become serious. "Landing site ahead. We're about half a mile from the reported malice traces."

Mal and Henbit both checked their seat restraints and the nets holding the cargo, then braced for the landing. The descent was smooth, and while Mal was the designated assistant if a copilot was needed, today wouldn't be that day. The smooth underlayer of the glider skidded along the grass; the grabber hooks yanked it to a stop.

Mal opened her cargo net and pulled out her crossbow and protective gear. She unzipped her jacket and took out the case from the inner pocket, opening it to double-check for the two blades: the primed one, shaped to fit on an arrow-shaft, that would finally be used today, and the unprimed one, set in the usual plain handle with her name burnt into both sides, that would with any luck remain unprimed for another fifty years. 

There was a sharp inhalation from Henbit on seeing the second blade. "Oh. You're one of the _Lakewalker_ Bluefields. I thought you were a farmer."

This time Farrier's snort from the pilot's seat was overly obvious. "Don't they know her name out in east Oleana anymore? They call her Mal for Malice, because she's killed so many."

Mal ignored her and shrugged. "Farmer, Lakewalker, it doesn't make much difference these days. Not with this." She nodded toward Henbit's portable groundviewer. "I'm likely to outlive three-quarters of my cousins, and my death can be used to kill a malice; that's all."

Henbit was still processing the knowledge. "But you're so.... Aren't Lakewalkers usually taller?"

Mal continued to ignore Farrier's glee. "Usually. One of my great-grandmothers was tiny; I take after her."

"Why didn't we use your groundsense instead of the scanner, then?"

"From the air? Even if modern scanners didn't have a longer range than most Lakewalkers, we were moving too fast for me get a fix. Now? Sure, if I reach out I can tell the malice is that way, about half a mile. It's a remarkably unpleasant sensation. The big advantage of scanners? They don't feel discomfort. And speaking of discomfort...." She pointed to the unprimed blade. "You know what this is, right?"

He nodded. "An unprimed sharing knife, bonded to you."

"Yep. If I'm mortally injured and can't wield this myself, Farrier's already claimed the privilege of carrying out my sharing--"

"It'll be my vengeance for a box of lenses she broke," Farrier explained.

"...But you're the backup. Stick it right here, aim straight for the heart, and then make absolutely certain the knife ends up somewhere safe where someone can retrieve it later. Or if you've got a malice bearing down on you, stick it anywhere in the malice; I don't mind if my death gets used fast."

"Right." Henbit looked askance at Mal, but that was the usual reaction to the high-speed lesson.

They strapped on their equipment. Farrier and Henbit fastened on and activated their groundshields, and the three set out towards the malice. Mal and Henbit went in front with the scanner; Farrier stayed several paces behind, watching their backs.

It was an easier walk than it could have been. Bison had been through the area, recently enough to crop the grasses to a walkable level but long enough ago that the occasional droppings were dry. At first Mal spotted the occasional shrike perched in a shrub, but as they progressed the birds vanished.

Henbit said quietly, "I don't understand how you can face it."

"Easy. Malices are terrifying, but the thought of what they'll do the world unchecked is even more terrifying."

"Not facing malices—I've seen blight; I know why you do it. Facing that knife."

Mal shrugged. "I assume that when the time comes, the alternative will be so much worse that I'll be happy to die fast."

"What if it isn't? What if you're a perfectly healthy seventy-year-old—wait, how old are you?"

Good catch. Mal grinned. "Sixty-seven."

"What if you're a perfectly healthy two-hundred-year-old...."

"Even Lakewalkers don't live that long."

Henbit sighed. "What if you're a perfectly healthy extremely old Lakewalker? What do you do then? Pick a day to stab yourself so you don't just die in bed in your sleep?"

He was asking an honest question; he deserved an honest answer. "A lot of us, yes. Especially anyone who's been a patroller; we'll give up a few good years of life to save the world for a little longer." She glanced over at Henbit's serious expression. "You have to remember, we're taught this from birth. Whatever we do with our lives, our deaths don't belong to us; they belong to the world."

They walked in silence for a few paces, Henbit often looking down at the scanner. He finally said, "Another third of a mile. But you probably knew that."

Mal nodded. "And once we pass that tree there I'm shielding so the malice doesn't rip me, and we're depending on you and the box."

After a pause, Henbit said, "I see why farmer-Lakewalker pairings aren't encouraged. I can't imagine having to kill someone I love."

Mal made her tone cheerfully matter-of-fact. "Would it be any comfort if I tell you that what usually happens is the farmer dies of old age and then the Lakewalker shares out of grief?"

"Um. I'm not sure." But the corners of his mouth turned up.

"And over time, the farmer may get used to the idea. There was this one farmer-Lakewalker pair I know about; when they married, she was horrified at the idea that he would share at all." Mal patted the knife case. "Forty-some years later, when he had a blood clot in his brain that did too much damage to be healed, she insisted on being the one who wielded the knife, because this was the last thing she could do for the man she loved." 

"Huh." That was the sound of someone who would think about what she'd said, even if it took him a while to process it. "I'll admit you don't sound scared of it, carrying your potential death weapon with you."

"You're right. Sharing doesn't scare me. You know what really scares me? This is the first malice since the one you found in Lost Oaks."

"But that's good! It means the scans from the remote gliders are working! We've gone from finding dozens a year to finding one every few years; we're succeeding."

Mal shook her head. "Someday, we'll go ten, twenty, fifty years without anyone finding a malice. If it's because we've destroyed them all, perfect; we've done our duty and succeeded. But what if there's still one left? Maybe one we missed; maybe one on the other side of the world? What if no one finds it until a hundred years from now when it hatches? Or a thousand years from now? And what if everyone's written off malices as a vanished fantasy in the meantime, and there aren't sharing knives to dispatch it with?" That topic had led to much debate when the extended family gathered, Bluefields and Redwings and Grackles arguing over how to be sure that there would still be sharing knives available if the next malice appeared fifty or five hundred years in the future. "That's what terrifies me. That's why I work with the groundviewers and the gliderscans. That's why when I go back to Clearcreek I want to start working with the moonlet builders and boom-arrow launchers. When we've destroyed the last malice, I want us to know with absolute certainty that it _is_ the last."

"All right," Henbit said after a few breaths, "now _you've_ scared _me_." He looked down at the scanner. "Almost there. In that copse, would you say?"

"Oh yes." Mal turned back to Farrier and raised her fist; Farrier returned the signal and readied her crossbow; the previous scan had reported no mud-men, but they all knew how quickly _that_ could change.

This time, they had been fast enough, or perhaps simply lucky. There was no sign, either on the scanner or to unaided sight, of the pots where the malice would be forming mud-men. When they finally saw the malice, it was obviously still sessile. And while the malice was partially concealed by the dead branches, there was a clear line of sight.

While Henbit took rapid notes on the scanner readings, Mal opened the knife case and took out the primed knife. As she prepared the crossbow, she said, "So, you planning to stay out in Luthlia for a while? Some of my cousins—Lakewalkers _and_ farmers—are out here on exchange with me for the next couple of years, testing the longer-range scanners. I'd be happy to introduce you to them."

"I'd like that." He held up his hand for a palm-touch. "Good luck."

She pressed her palm to his. "Thanks."

When Mal was about twenty paces from the malice, she stopped. It stirred, an ugly thing, sensing her presence. But it could do no more than writhe in place, and this occasion called for at least a moment's ceremony.

She had planned to save this knife for her final malice kill, before she retired or died herself; she had hoped that whatever malice she used it on would truly be the final malice. 

But it was becoming clear, both to her and to the groundsetters she'd consulted, that after nearly a hundred years, the knife had reached the limit of what groundsetters could do to strengthen it; the structure of the bone would soon fail and the death would be lost. While Grandma had once told her that the deaths were not wasted even if they ultimately went unused, Mal couldn't quite bring herself to believe that with _this_ knife, and Grandma had admitted that neither could she.

And if this was not _the_ last malice, certainly it was one of the last. A worthy end to the blade she'd carried so long.

Mal aimed the crossbow and spoke to the malice. "I am Mallard Bluefield Clearcreek Oleana. The bone in this knife came from Roki Horned-Owl Bullfrog Raintree. The death is that of my great-grandfather, Dag Bluefield Clearcreek Oleana. Together, the three of us now send you from this world."

She fired the crossbow.

The bolt struck. The malice crumbled apart.

And for a moment, in the cloud of dust, Mal thought she saw a sparkle of lights like fireflies.


End file.
